


Rise of Mysterion

by deadmysterion



Category: South Park
Genre: Gen, Immortal Kenny McCormick, M/M, Origin Story, Selectively Mute Kenny McCormick, South Park: The Fractured But Whole, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadmysterion/pseuds/deadmysterion
Summary: Before he was a superhero, he was just Kenny, poverty-stricken, painfully quiet teenager with boy problems.
Relationships: Karen McCormick & Kenny McCormick, Kyle Broflovski/Kenny McCormick
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	1. Prologue

By now, Kenny McCormick, chain convenience store connoisseur, knows to subtly reach up and stop the chimes on the door from jingling when he walks in. He hardly likes drawing attention to himself in normal situations, let alone when he's doing something he shouldn't be. Other than that, though, he's just a regular customer, so he acts like one. He walks like one.

That means making a casual beeline for the aisle of over-the-counter meds and drugstore makeup, like he knows exactly what he's looking for (because he does). Karen could use some antihistamines. Bugs are her new thing, so she keeps getting herself bit. Once Kenny pockets them, he sets off to his real target: the shitty processed food aisle.

Price tags are futile to look at, but scanning the nutrition facts is a must. He's come here once before to take note of the security cameras — an upturned head is a dead giveaway, he's learned; the trick is to bring a water bottle and pretend to take a long swig — so he knows where the blind spots are. There's a good one nearby, right between the gum and M&Ms. He makes his selections and, after a quick glance at the cashier (reading a magazine and sucking a lollipop), he squats down on the floor.

His parka is perfectly bulky for this. It only takes him a few seconds to successfully conceal enough to feed his sister for the weekend, which is all that really matters. As he rises again he thinks _fuck it, I'll buy the M &Ms. _It's less suspicious that way. And admittedly, he'd feel weird leaving without paying even a bit. Even though _if it's a chain, it's free rein._

Now that he doesn't need to slip out as inconspicuously, he can take some more time to look around. Anyone who finds window shopping boring most likely a) can afford more than a single packet of M&Ms and b) doesn't have the home life of the McCormicks.

There's something about this place anyway. It's weirdly calming. The linoleum aisles, the rickety metal shelves, the flickering neon light of the SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED side of the window sign. The dull ambient hum of the hot-dog-roller-thing. Quiet and deliciously average, the world seems to stand still. Like he's stepped out of the cold South Park night and into an alternate reality. It isn't lost on Kenny how much it says about his hectic existence that he's about to find inner peace at a 7/11.

After strolling for a bit, he finds himself at the far end of the building, next to a likely dingy bathroom. In front of the alcohol. He stops, hesitates for a second. Picks up a bottle curiously. All things considered, it's strange that he can even bear to look at it, let alone consider taking some and running or coming back with his fake ID. If it weren't for Karen, he doesn't know if he'd be strong enough to do otherwise. If it weren't for her he'd probably be even more of an alcoholic than either of his parents by now. _Thank god for Karen._ He places it back on the shelf.

"Oh —" _Smash._ "Shit." _Nice job._ If he wasn't already an ass for shoplifting, now he's spilled vodka all over the tile. And — he looks at the clerk again, who's squinting back — drawn that attention he'd dreaded. He dips to the floor again so he can pick up the glass, at least.

The shards are jagged and scratch his fingers, but he doesn't wince. Halfway through his awkwardly sweeping up the pieces, the door jingles again. But it's quickly drowned out by a much louder _SLAM_ — one that makes Kenny stop in his tracks.

Heavy feet stomp into the building. The clerk exclaims. Kenny stumbles to the other side of the aisle and peers over the shelf.

Two guys are planted by the door, in hats and parkas zipped all the way up like Kenny's. One cocks a gun, the sound all too familiar, and gestures to the other. Kenny dips behind the shelf again, landing hard on the floor.

He doesn't work well under pressure. Let alone having been thrust into an action movie all of a sudden. They're trying to get the clerk to open the register, and she will, probably, but right now she's hysterical and confused, and he doesn't want them to hurt her. He _can't_ let them hurt her. For some reason.

Plus, Kenny can hear the other guy (without the gun?) walking to his end of the store, and he stares at the cracked bathroom door in front of him. Jeans soaking in alcohol now, he scoots to the far side of the shelf and picks up the biggest shard of thick, fancy bottle glass he can find.

Living with his parents, he's honed a skill of avoiding detection, which had been helping with his task just a few minutes ago. He quiets his breathing.

As the commotion continues, boots are dragging near his ears now; shadows dance across his hiding spot, distorted through the rattan shelves. The door opens inward. The other man makes himself known. Kenny squeezes his makeshift weapon just in case.

Then, in one swift movement, with stupid reckless bravery, Kenny jumps up, grips the back of the guy's jacket, and shoves him through the door as hard as he can. It slams. It clicks.

Kenny collapses pathetically with it. He isn't weak, just hasn't eaten much today. The moment on his ass _(in a damn vodka puddle again)_ gives him some clarity to blink his surroundings into view. Ironically, a wet floor sign.

He uses it to wedge the door closed as it's banged on from the inside. Stares at it. His heart is racing to a painful degree. Not really from fear. More the combo of adrenaline and malnutrition. He can't even hear the commotion on the other side of the room anymore.

Wait — he _really_ can't hear the commotion.

He turns, and he's staring down the barrel of a gun.

 _Okay,_ he thinks, breathing probably so calmly it's worrying for the guy, although Kenny can't see his face enough to confirm that. _He just wanted to rob a store. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. You can talk —_ he almost laughs at the notion right there — _you can talk him down._

 _You don't have to do this._ He doesn't say it. He honestly tries. The words get caught by the dam between his brain and his vocal cords. It's the worst feeling in the world. He'll never get used to it.

What Kenny's next move ends up being is anybody's guess. He just moves.

All he hears is a _BANG_ _,_ for a split second all he sees is white, and strangely enough (he's always wondered) he feels no pain. He just freezes.

When his mind catches up, he's staring up at the ceiling, listening to the guy panic, realizing it was an accident that this happened at all, that this shouldn't have happened; wondering why the front of his shirt is soaked and warm, why he's unable to breathe. Trying to reach up and feel it. His body moving on his own. Convulsing just slightly like a stuck-out tongue.

Then, an alarm.


	2. Kenny is on a heroic streak lately

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this fic for FOREVER, and it's not done yet, but I'm so happy to finally be in a place where I can start publishing it. The updates may be a bit erratic but I won't abandon it, promise.
> 
> In case you didn't notice: in this fic, Kenny is selectively mute. You'll see how that ties into his story and identity as Mysterion later, but please note that I myself am selectively mute, writing based on my own experience. So it'll definitely be accurate (at least to my specific case). That being said I'd love to hear your thoughts on this Kenny because he's real special to me and I hope I'm able to tie in this trait well.

The ceiling is just as white, but no longer tiled with fluorescents. Just a bare bulb with a pull-chain, long left switched off to preserve the eyesight of a certain little girl who forgets not to look directly at it; a peeling discolored popcorn texture; probably black mold.

It comes into vision slowly as heavy eyelids flutter open, narrowing every time the noise blares again. Refusing to look away from the ceiling, Kenny reaches over to his nightstand and silences the alarm clock with a sigh.

He stares up blankly. Tries to clear his head of fog. Until he hears a door creak across the hall, and two little feet pitter-patter to the kitchen — his cue to get up.

Showering every single morning is a waste, he'd decided years ago, when a sprinkle of baby powder remedies greasy hair just fine. He drags himself to the bathroom first thing anyway, because it's the only room he can change in that actually locks. Once his sleep shirt (what he calls a shirt he's declared too torn-up to wear outside, but not yet garbage) is on the rug, he scans his body in the mirror.

The glass is dirty as hell, but dust doesn't do much to conceal his scraggly figure or the unsightly scars that cover it. They run up and across his torso. Kenny's hand runs over them. He thinks he looks like a tiger, or maybe a burn victim, although he hasn't seen either in real life. And there's a brand-new scar now, right by his heart. Circular and deep. He glares.

It doesn't feel like a dream.

Because it wasn't. But it's not clear as day, either. It's like a memory; a distant one that he needs a level of focus to remember, but a real one nonetheless. He still hears the crack of the shot somewhere deep in his head, feels the stun of it, the warm wetness spreading across his chest and the cold tile on his back. He'll forget those details eventually. But the scar will remain.

A few minutes later, still barefooted but otherwise clothed, he wends his way to the kitchen.

The local news complains about something or other from the old TV set, and Kenny takes a seat just as the toaster coughs up his bread. Karen's been insisting on making breakfast for a few months now. He hopes she doesn't feel obligated to, guilty from watching Kenny pull so much weight around the house, but he's grateful. Less work for him.

_I watched them go in, and they held up the register._ Kenny's eyes flicker to the TV. _But then they just left. They ran away, like, panicking, I don't know if they even took the money._

The screen changes from a random woman Kenny doesn't recognize to a reporter that he does. _Luckily, this latest in a four-week-long string of armed robberies across central Colorado ended abruptly for an unknown reason; nothing was taken — but the suspects, who police have identified as the culprits of several similar crimes, remain at large. No injuries or casualties were reported at the scene —_

Kenny picks up the remote and shuts the TV off.

"Jam," Karen announces proudly. And it is. She drops two plates on the table — _Kevin isn't home yet_ — and Kenny takes a bite right away so that she'll follow.

It's much too sweet, but beggars can't be choosers. Karen speaks with her mouth full. "We have a test today."

"Oh yeah?" Kenny responds. She's talkative even in the morning.

" _Mm-hmm._ " She frowns at her toast. "It's math. I _hate_ math."

"Why?" He cocks his head. "You'll do fine. You're smart."

It's true. He really doesn't tell her enough, but she is. Smarter than Kenny, at least in the academic sense. Still, he doesn't blame her for hating school.

"Whatever." She licks her lips _(finished already?)_ and hops up from her chair. "I don't understand it," she whines, "and it's boring. 'M just gonna drop out."

"Burned out at twelve," Kenny drones. "Sad."

"I'm thirteen!" Karen protests. She isn't yet.

If she were being honest, really considering that, Kenny would probably die. He has to remind himself that she isn't, that they're just joking around; she's making it all the way to high school graduation and maybe even past, and everything will have been worth it. _Nothing to worry about._

Eating's been abandoned, now that no one's at the table for Kenny to set an example for. Instead, he watches Karen as she gathers her things for school. They're both the kind of people who just stuff loose papers right in their bags, no folders or anything. It's sickening, really. "What'll you do, then?" he asks fondly. "When you drop out?"

She drops her head for a second to think. "Dunno. Sell drugs maybe."

Kenny nods his approval. "I'll get discounts?"

* * *

_Walking, walking. Walking, walking. Hop hop hop._

_Hop hop hop._ It's a very stupid song, but it's very much stuck in Kenny's head, on account of his sister's incessant singing as she'd skipped their route to her school.

He's well on his way to his own school now, fresh snow crunching under his old beat-up boots, calves aching from the long distance, nose burning from the wind chill. He looks at the students passing him by, few and far between, as he trudges across the parking lot. Some rush past like they're late to being early.

_Running-running-running, running-running-running._

"Kenny!" He's nearly engulfed by a cloud of hair.

_Time to stop._

Bebe can be a little overbearing, but at least she brings a consolation prize for putting up with it. He gratefully accepts her second coffee cup.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," Wendy echoes from behind her.

_Hi,_ Kenny thinks.

And just like that, it's them three, and it will be for the next six hours; it'll be the usual who likes who and who was pantsed in gym last week (Clyde), and Kenny won't talk anymore. He'll observe and laugh along, but won't add anything, no matter what he wants to add. That's just the way it is. His friends know it, his teachers know it, he's always known it, and yet he wishes it were different, although he doesn't really know why.

Because he doesn't even feel left out, most of the time.

"You think Ms. Ellen is sick again?" Bebe asks as they fall into the usual formation (Kenny sandwiched in between the other two). "I know you wanted to talk to her about your credits or something."

"Extra credit work," Wendy corrects gently. "And I don't know."

Maybe not talking heightens his other senses, like how blind people smell better or whatever, because immediately Kenny swears something is quietly, barely noticeably, wrong with Wendy.

She isn't by any means the most sprightly person in the world, but she seems upset. Bothered by something. Kenny watches and waits for Bebe to get distracted by a boy or girl somewhere.

Predictably, she eventually does, giving Kenny a second to gesture for Wendy's attention and sign, _"What's the matter?",_ a subtle tap to the chin. She lifts her own hand to respond —

"Aw, c'mon," Bebe protests, smacking it down. "I can't understand that, use your words."

"Maybe if you took the time to learn some signs," Wendy retorts. "Kenny can't just 'use his words'."

"Yeah, but I can always tell what he's thinking."

"Can you?" Wendy asks, dropping her annoyance for genuine interest. Kenny sighs as softly as he can.

Kenny lets his gaze wander as they walk in stride, the conversation now shifted to Bebe's magic (there's a psychic connection between blondes, she declares, then immediately apologizes to Wendy because she loves her just as much), until it's time for him to abandon the others in favor of his first class. The girls start to walk past him and he catches it again: the strangest thing flickers in Wendy's eyes.

It's like she hates to see him go, but not just in the normal way. In an unusually intense way, that makes him feel like something terrible is about to happen. Like she's scared to leave him alone, like something's lurking in the schoolyard, and for a split second he wonders — hopes that she remembers. Somehow. Maybe she'd felt the shift in the air. Maybe she'd noticed that she'd been talking to a different person today, because the person she'd spent Friday with had died last night.

Then Bebe tugs on her jacket and the look is gone, along with the both of them. And Kenny is left not knowing if he'd imagined it all. Either way, he starts making his way to his shortcut at the other end of the building, wasting no time. Sips his coffee. Peering at the Sharpie scrawl, today it appears to be labeled _Kenny G._

He swears that with every death, or rebirth, or whatever, school seems more and more pointless. Most things do. Still, he can't wait to be able to stop walking for the morning, even if that means subjecting himself to something so mundane. His house is too far away.

Just a few more moments and he'll be out of the cold. So he tries to ignore the trademark racket of a fight breaking out as he crosses the schoolyard.

_What's with you?_ he scolds himself. _Go to class. Kids get beat up all the time._

He stops walking.

If anyone in the growing crowd happened to look a few feet to the right, they'd probably laugh at the obvious, melodramatic internal conflict going on. As Kenny rocks back and forth on his heels, squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fists, because from the sound of it he can _tell_ exactly who they're watching, at least one of them, and he knows someone is getting their ass kicked. Someone who doesn't deserve that. Behind his thick scarf, he scowls.

Stomping as if it isn't entirely of his own volition, Kenny heads towards the crowd.

He cuts a path fairly quickly, unafraid of shoving his way through, and his suspicions are confirmed: once he gets a view of Eric, he grabs him by the front of his coat.

Facing him, he realizes Eric is actually in pretty bad shape, but the kid he's beating on is lying on the ground, so Kenny figures they have it worse. And he wants to say _pick on someone your own size,_ or something less cliché like _stop being a dick,_ but he just glares into Eric's mismatched eyes (heterochromia, it's kinda cool, really; if he weren't so awful it might help him pick up chicks). Kenny knows he'll get the gist. And he won't fight. Well, actually, Kenny isn't really sure about that. Where do they stand? He blinks. Getting involved seems like a worse idea now.

Eric pushes his arm off, and Kenny thinks for a second he might get his answer.

But the bell rings instead.

Kenny almost laughs, but outwardly he just cocks his head, because, _You can't be late to class. You've been grounded for weeks. Your mom told my mom._

As childish as the thought is, he's not wrong. Eric hesitates, but retreats.

Their morning entertainment over, the crowd quickly disperses, leaving Kenny the last one standing as he watches Eric go. Saved by the bell. Would he have actually been punched just then? He shakes the thought out of his head. _Who cares._

"I tripped," someone says, once everyone else is gone.

The kid — the boy — is still on the ground. Kenny furrows his brow. The voice is unrecognizable, he's wracking his brain, but the tone is familiar. Eerily so.

"I was winning," the boy insists again. "Don't think otherwise."

Kenny turns around.

He's propped up on his elbows, looking down at the snow-covered grass, almost shamefully, or maybe he's just frustrated. And he's holding out his hand. Expecting Kenny to help him to his feet. An understandable assumption. But Kenny just stares at the pale, skinny arm extended towards him, like an idiot, not moving at all. Eventually, the boy looks up, and in doing so, he finally gets a good look at Kenny's face.

And Kenny gets a good look at his.

_Jesus Christ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The walking song goes to the tune of Frère Jacques, if you were wondering.


	3. Like a bus or an ambulance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jeez this took a long time to finish. I need to just post it and stop staring at it. It's hard for me to write ~exposition~ but I hope I got it across well. Thank you for the kudos, it's super motivating ^_^

"I assumed Wendy would tell you," Kyle says apologetically the next day, once he's finally located Kenny again (who suspects the girls had tipped him off on the spot — outside, in front of the big sign, under the smallest of a few trees; where he spends his lunch period when he doesn't have a lunch).

Today, Kyle is standing above him in an awkward half-crouch: not quite sure if he's allowed to sit down, which Kenny finds a bit redundant, as he must know he's already invading some personal boundaries just by being here. "I mean," he continues, "I didn't tell her, but Stan knew, so ...." It's needless to explain that telling one of them something is as good as telling the other.

 _She was about to tell_ _me._ Kenny had figured that out from yesterday. _But then_ you _showed up._

The _you_ in particular rings in his head so begrudgingly. Like he's a child. Like Kyle is here right now just to inconvenience him specifically.

Come to think of it, he doesn't know why Kyle is here.

As though reading his mind, Kyle finally sinks to his level on the ground, cringing in discomfort as he forces himself to kneel in the snow. If he were in the mood, Kenny would have called him a priss.

"My dad lost his job," he explains, tugging at the hem of one glove to busy himself. "A while ago. It-it's not a big deal, we're fine, but he still had an offer here, and it's technically in the zone for Ike's school, so." Shrug. "We're back here, I guess." Kyle says _back here_ much as one might say _in this public bathroom._

Kenny nods in understanding, looking down at the snow. He hears a light scoff.

"I see you haven't changed."

It isn't said in malice, and it's the truth, anyway. Kyle hasn't either. Sure, he's taller (which isn't really saying much; he'd left when they were kids, after all) and just the slightest bit buffer (still skinny, but it looks like he could lift a weight now, maybe). But his smile is the same, wide and crooked, his skin just as freckled, his hair just as strikingly red. Still topped with a goofy ushanka, although this one is less overwhelmingly fluffy and more plaid.

He has a phone now, obviously. And one of those ugly flip-open phone cases, very Kyle, Kenny notices as it's stiffly dropped into his hands. Screen open to notes.

 _Why did you leave?_ is his first impulse, but that would be dumb. His dad had gotten a job offer, they'd wanted to move closer to Ike's kid-genius school, et cetera. Kenny knows that. What he means is, _Why did you leave me? I know why you left, but did you have to leave me?_

_You could've offered to visit. Like you did with Stan. Like, once. You could've called._

_I missed you._

He types: _and u already tried to beat up cartman._

Kyle takes the phone to read, and his face scrunches up a little in response. "Yeah, I know. It doesn't matter why. The funny thing is I told myself I wouldn't let him piss me off like that anymore." He clenches a gloved fist. "He just knows how to get on my nerves."

Interrupting, Kenny takes the phone again and types, _u grew a few inches :) what classes do u have._ It earns him a chuckle and a light punch on the arm.

"Yesterday was my first day here, so I was just with the counselor and stuff. I had lunch with Stan and them," Kyle says as he hands the phone back. He seems to settle into the snow at last, accepting his fate. "I guess it's kinda nice being back in a small town. I didn't have to meet many new people."

'Them' would refer to Stan's friends, and as expected, now Kyle's as well; some familiar, some new, all relatively well-off and popular. A good fit for him. The snow is fresh again today. It's soft and cushiony under Kenny's boots, and he treads it absentmindedly as he half-listens to the answer to a question he hadn't really meant to ask.

"Then I think I have Biology."

The treading stops.

"Biology," Kyle repeats, noticing that Kenny hadn't been listening to the rest. "Wyland, I think. Do you have him?"

Kenny nods.

"Oh, okay."

The air isn't heavy; it's quite the opposite, chilly and soothing, but still — there's something hanging in it, just between them. Something they're both inhaling painfully into their frozen lungs, releasing into the atmosphere with every visible puff of breath. Kenny knows exactly what it is, but Kyle doesn't voice it for him.

It's strange: he's finally back, but all he wants is for Kyle to leave again. To go hang out with his real friends and leave Kenny under his sad tree.

Because now Kyle is real, material, and he's making casual, friendly conversation, like he'd just been away for the weekend. He's going on, somewhere far away, about the other classes he has (most excited for Computer Science, of course). Gazing up at the white sky, being perfectly normal. He's no longer a distant, nagging presence at the back of Kenny's head. He's a _person,_ kneeling out here in the grass, trying in vain to have a conversation.

And Kenny needs to confront two facts:

A) He'd really, really missed Kyle. More than he'd thought.

B) Nobody is being awful to him right now, not at all.

He knows it's immature to hold a grudge about something that happened when they were so young. But that's the thing — Kenny had had so long to misremember, to assume, to build up a version of Kyle in his head that, admittedly, probably never existed. A version that Kenny didn't _want_ around. One that hadn't stayed in touch for the sole reason that he didn't care to. No entertaining hope, no room for a less upsetting explanation.

It's very immature. He's still mad.

They'd never been best friends — that spot is reserved for Stan, even now, and Kenny respects that — but they'd been _something._

Kenny shakes his head compulsively, wiping his thoughts away like an etch-a-sketch.

"How are you?" Kyle asks softly.

It's a simple question, but they both know the weight of it. Kenny just shrugs.

"How's Karen?" He tries again. Points for effort. "Oh, dude, she must be so old now. Holy shit."

Kenny only has ten fingers, so he uses one to carve out a '12' in the snow between them.

"Wow. Ike's already ten-and-a-half." Kyle sighs, hugging his arms to his torso out of cold or exasperation or whatever. "He gets more insufferable every year."

What a harsh word. Kenny can't even fathom referring to Karen with a word like _insufferable._ Sometimes annoying, sure. But kids are always annoying. _We were annoying,_ he thinks.

"How's Bebe?" _You're annoying._

In a kind of endearing way, of course. "Oh, and Token. Stan hasn't mentioned them," Kyle blabs on, "and he's been talking my ears off." _Ironic._

Listening silently and twiddling his frozen thumbs, Kenny confronts another thing.

C) Kyle leaving had hurt so much because _it was Kyle._

 _Bzzzzz._ Without much tact, the phone is snatched out of Kenny's lap, and Kyle leans over him for a moment as he squints to read the screen in the harsh sunlight. "Oh," he mumbles, straightening up, "Stan needs me." Kenny purses his lips.

The snow flies around them as they struggle to their feet, Kenny aiding in Kyle's fruitless attempt to avoid getting any wetter. "Well." Kyle's phone slips back into his front pocket, along with his gloved hands. "We'll see each other in class."

They will.

* * *

**Wends** 1:20PM **  
**I was going to tell you.

 **Kenny** 1:20PM  
ik. it's cool  
just a surprise

 **Bebe** 1:20PM  
kyle is back?? i love kyle

 **Wends** 1:20PM  
Yes, we all love Kyle

 **Bebe** 1:21PM  
some of us more than others lul

 **Wends** 1:21PM  
Stan hasn't shut up about it, he's really happy

 **Bebe** 1:22PM  
cuuuute  
wendy might have some competition

 **Kenny** 1:22PM  
aww just like old timez

 **Wends** 1:22PM  
Anyways  
You ok Kenny? You took it hard when he left.

 **Kenny** 1:23PM  
;)

 **Wends** 1:23PM  
You know what I mean.

 **Kenny** 1:28PM  
i said it's cool  
we talked n shit already  
hes in our class rn btw

 **Wends** 1:28PM  
Oh I know!

 **Bebe** 1:28PM  
oo what class

 **Wends** 1:29PM  
Biology.

 **Bebe** 1:29PM  
;)

Maybe they continue the joke after that, but Kenny doesn't bother to read it. Energy noticeably dwindling without a meal, he falls into his seat as soon as he reaches the back of the class, only acknowledging the person beside him with a subdued nod. Sitting next to the only student in South Park nearly as quiet as himself at least gives Kenny some solace.

Nearly.

"You hear?" It's hard to determine, with Craig, what's a statement and what's a question — everything's said in the same dull monotone — but Kenny has learned by now. He shakes his head.

"I barely slept," Craig complains before elaborating, rubbing an eye to demonstrate. "Tweek thinks it was aliens. He thinks most things are aliens." After some pause, he asks, "You didn't see the news?"

The news? The robbery? Kenny's eyes flicker up.

"The crash or whatever. If aliens actually invaded, I'd be _so_ happy." The shadow of a smile tugs at Craig's lip. "But I tell him they're not. Logically."

Craig and Tweek are sickeningly adorable, but at the moment, Kenny doesn't particularly care. He just makes a quiet _"hm"_ noise in response.

"It was like, a bus," Craig says, as though he'd been asked, "or an ambulance."

He has more to worry about than an off-road ambulance, so Kenny lets his gaze wander as they fall into comfortable silence. Sure enough, Kyle is here, taking up the spare desk next to Wendy. Right at the front of the class, where he belongs.

Weirdly enough, despite being in a Science classroom and chatting away with the smartest girl in school, Kyle doesn't seem in his element at all. Just staring down at his hand, tap-tap-tapping on his desk. _Since Stan and his jock friends aren't around._

Kenny keeps staring despite himself as the teacher walks in and the lesson starts, and even as he walks around the room dropping papers on each of their desks. And the two he's fixed upon keep talking, albeit more subtly, faces a bit closer together, so they aren't so easily caught.

Maybe he knows Wendy's body language amazingly well, or maybe he's just on edge, but Kenny can't shake the feeling that their conversation is about him.

The way she leans ever so slightly towards the room behind her, the careful crane of his neck, their hushed tones and need to keep talking even at this point, like it's something they'd been meaning to discuss all day long; it all makes Kenny's shoulders tense up, and they don't relax until he hears the phrase _independent or in pairs,_ which snaps him back to reality at once.

Craig is one of the first to hop out of his seat. He heads to Token's and greets him with a fist bump. Kenny watches. His mind blanks until he feels a chair scrape the tile below his desk.

"Hi," Kyle says, finishing his cumbrous little scoot. Kenny turns to look at him.

Choosing independent study had been obvious for Kenny, but with Kyle, it can't be too bad. Kyle, who's actually been making an effort to talk _to_ him, rather than _at_ him. Like his friends. Maybe this is what they'd been conspiring with him.

Kyle's pencil-tapping continues on Kenny's desk this time, and they sit there listening to the other students' excited chatter until he says, "Animal behavior."

 _"Hm?"_ Kenny questions, gentler this time.

"We're studying the behavior of a species," Kyle explains, flipping open the stapled sheets on Kenny's desk. "We pick one, observe them for a few weeks, mark down our findings. You zone out a lot." He smiles.

Kenny smiles back, incredibly tediously, even though he doesn't. _I'm just out of it today,_ he thinks, but of course, there isn't any way Kyle could know why.

* * *

Karen tends to lock herself away after school but usually wanders into the kitchen by dinnertime — that is, when she and Kenny are home alone, not hiding from their parents, going to bed with bellies full of nothing but stowed-away peanut butter and crackers — but this evening, there's no sign of her. Just an empty kitchen, the buzz of the refrigerator, too many fruit flies, and Kenny soothing himself by humming a tune as he prepares her food.

Sandwich carefully assembled, he checks her room first, then his. Admittedly, it's always just a little bit scary when he can't find her, but she always shows up. Karen doesn't wander without telling him first, even if she likes to act independent.

He sets the plate atop the table for her before checking outside, and sure enough, there's his girl.

The door swinging open makes her jump like every sudden noise does, but she loosens up once she sees it's only Kenny. Automatically, he sits down next to her on the porch. It creaks under their weight.

"Hey, Kare-bear," he says.

She snorts. "Don't call me that anymore. I'm not a baby."

"Looks say different," Kenny observes, lifting bony fingers to tug at her hair. "Don't remember the last time I saw you with pigtails."

His hand is swatted away in seconds. "I like 'em."

Kenny knows that if she wants to talk about it, she will. They both know how bad she is at masking her emotions, and that her demeanor screams sad. So he doesn't need to ask, _Did something happen at school? Something happen with Dad?_ His crippling worry is implied.

"I just had a bad day," she finally says. Kenny nods. This means the kids at her school were being assholes again, as usual.

He'll deal with it later if he decides to. Right now, he reminds himself, it's time for dinner. Before they make eye contact, Kenny swallows his anger, unclenches his jaw, and plasters on a grin. "I know what'll make you feel better."

If you glanced quickly at her smile, you'd think it was more gaps than teeth. She giggles. "Baloney?"

"You know it," he drawls, lifting her up from her sulking position. "Only the best for you, princess."

"Why thank you, kind jester," she replies in a phony (and awful) posh accent, nice and sprightly again, cured. Kenny watches her skip back through the front door.

He stands there as the door shuts, staying for no real reason, and turns to face the lawn. He looks at the snow, scarce and mixed with dirt, peppered with litter, much less perfect than that on the other side of the tracks. A contrast to the powder he'd sat in with Kyle, wanting to hit him and pull him into a hug at the same time. He watches a fat raccoon skirt by.

Karen calls him back inside. He leaves the porch light on.


End file.
